The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 (86 page)

Silence.

Funny, how much she wanted the answer to the question she suddenly didn’t have the courage to ask.

Put up the sword, Avandar. Viandaran. Whatever you want to call yourself. Put it up. You should never have drawn it
.

Oh
?

Because now
, she continued, the words carrying themselves beyond volition and intention,
now they’ll know. Where you are. What you’ve done
.

Ah. Yes
, he said. He
will know
. And he looked to the North.

No, she thought, the City coming unbidden to mind. No. But she
knew
that the god in the North could grant him what he desired, what she had
never
desired for her den. Death.

“Avandar.” Close enough. Close enough to touch him. The blade was between them, its edge a thing of light.

He looked down at her.

She reached out, arm shaking, and touched his chest. With the flat of her hand. She stopped there, staring up at his eyes, her hand illuminated now by the red, red light of a brand that was glowing in the recess of night, in the light of sword.

His hand touched the back of hers.

His fingers lifted her chin, forcing her eyes up.

“Are you afraid, ATerafin?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” His smile was cool. Foreign.

And she realized, as he offered it, that the hand that touched her chin was the hand that had borne the sword.

Ser Alessandro kai di’Clemente waited out the storm. Although the plains seldom saw a storm such as this, he felt the danger of it at great remove; the beasts that had harried and killed his men were dead; the Widan—or whatever it was they styled themselves—gone. If victory was counted in a hundred dead, he had victory. The Adane had exacted its price along the riverbanks. His boot hit hard ground, kicked up rocks that had struggled to broken surface. He wondered what would grow here, in the months that followed, if anything did.

Reymos was by his side. His forehead was covered in a sheen of red; slick and shiny, it stopped at his lids. The banner of Clemente he bore with a quiet determination, but his hands shook with fatigue.

“He will pay,” Alessandro said quietly. “For Adelos. For my men.”

Reymos nodded. No other words need be said.

But other words came. Practical words. “The Tyr’agnate,” Reymos said quietly.

Alessandro nodded. Not even a Tor’agar could kill the head of a ruling clan with impunity. “We will inform him of the night’s events. Look,” he added.

The river was subsiding.

If, by subsiding, one meant shrinking back into the containment of its bed. It was slow to yield; it reached out to destroy what was within its reach—but almost nothing was. Wooden planks, men’s swords and shields, the detritus of old buildings—these were pulled in by the force of the water, to be carried or hoarded in the movement of its stream.

But the bridge made by the Warlord remained unmoved and untroubled by the water that lapped at its curve.

Upon the bridge, sword sheathed, the man stood, the Northern girl in his arms.

Calm came slowly to the Lady’s Night. Silence descended.

Across the width of new bridge came the Northern bard; his chest was red with blood, his arm wounded, but his expression denied the existence of injury. He paused at the back of the Warlord, and the Warlord turned.

What he said, no one could hear, and Alessandro bitterly regretted it. The bard’s speech was short; the Northern woman nodded and he stepped around them, tracing a clear path toward the ruling kai of Clemente.

He bowed before him, feet steady above the wreckage of buildings. The bow itself was perfect; it accorded Alessandro the full measure of respect due his rank. In spite of himself, Alessandro felt the debt he bore grow subtly.

“Kai Clemente,” the bard said, choosing the less formal title, as if to alleviate some of that burden.

“Kallandras of Senniel,” the Tor’agar replied.

“If your negotiations within Damar have been completed, I would respectfully suggest you withdraw your forces.”

Alessandro raised brow; a question.

“Not all of the men sent to Damar were stationed within it; not all of them were gathered by the Adane. Sarel offers some safety against their numbers—but that safety diminishes with time.” He paused. “With your leave, kai Clemente, I will bespeak the Radann par el’Sol; I believe he has duties to which he
must
attend.”

Alessandro nodded at once.

But the horses were scattered, and he had no idea of how many had survived the onslaught; the return to Sarel would be slower and more cumbersome than the arrival in Damar had been.

He lifted horn to lip, drew breath.

But before he could wind it he heard the voice of another horn, its song raised in cry of war.

He closed his eyes. “How many?” he said softly.

Kallandras of Senniel turned to the South and listened a moment.

“Many,” he said softly. “And they are close now.”

Weary, Alessandro blew horn. But it was not the note he had hoped to sound.

The forces of the Tyr’agar had begun their march into the town of Damar.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

L
ORD Celleriant descended slowly. He had turned to face the South, and he observed the march of lights from the distance of height; his sight was keen, and his instinct gave him numbers.

He did not fear mortal armies, but he knew that he had spent the better part of his power in an act of preservation that now seemed futile. For Viandaran had sheathed his blade—against all tale, all legend, of his time before the fall of man—and stood, cloaked again, his power shuttered, his head bowed over the head of the ATerafin woman, his arms, incongruously, around her.

His was not the only blade of power upon the field; Lord Celleriant’s was a bright slash of blue against the vision as he touched ground.

Kallandras of Senniel College stood five yards to the west; their eyes met. The blood that adorned the bard was like a poem, and Celleriant desired the privacy—and the leisure—in which to appreciate it; he had neither. Not for the first time would he curse the hurried pace of mortal life.

And death.

He stepped lightly above the fallen, and knelt a moment to close the eyes of a dead man.

When he rose, Kallandras was at his side, his brows lifted slightly in curiosity.

“It is a mortal custom,” Celleriant said.

“Yes,” Kallandras replied, no more.

But they were watched; Lord Celleriant was aware of the observers. He did not intend to answer the question Kallandras had not asked, although he was as aware of it as he was of the regard of the Clemente men.

But he said, “It is reparation for failure. He died by the water’s hand.”

Kallandras said, “The dead are dead; their eyes see nothing.”

“That is not what the mortals of old believed.”

“It is the truth.”

He shrugged. “It is reality. But . . . all custom, all pageantry, all ritual, are based in things that hold deeper truths at their heart. Come. They gather.”

He walked toward the lady he had been given to serve. Bowed, although the bow was a war bow, and not the ritual, perfect abasement of a distant Court.

She was slow to detach from the Warlord, or perhaps he was slow to release her, but she did turn. Her eyes, living eyes, were round and wide.

“There are a thousand men,” he said quietly, “who march even now through the streets of Damar.”

“The villagers?”

She could surprise him by the simplest of questions.

“I did not think to look.”

It was true; armor’s glint, and sword’s, had captured his attention, as if he were magpie, and they, treasures to be gathered when the night’s work was done and the story at last told.

“ATerafin,” Viandaran said quietly. “The villagers present no threat to Clemente; let them fend for themselves a while longer.”

She stiffened; her lips opened, presaging argument.

But they closed again as she nodded. She let go of Viandaran completely, and gained two inches in height as she squared slender shoulders.

As if she were of the North, as if the South had no part of her blood or her heritage—and it was there, to Celleriant’s admittedly untutored eye—she marched toward the Clemente Tor who had just lowered horn.

“You have my gratitude, Lady,” he said, offering her a bow that was in essence foreign.

As was she; she did not seem to note the significance of the gesture. And perhaps it had no significance to one who could command such . . . men . . . as hers. “Maybe,” she said quietly. “But there are a thousand men marching through the streets of Damar. They’ll be here soon.”

“They come from the South?”

She nodded.

“Then they will be forced to the Eastern half of Damar.”

“Why?” Her eyes were too wide. He looked at her, and he saw a woman, a tired, frightened woman. But beyond her, he saw . . . the Warlord. He did not pity her, and he did not despise her; that he did not understand her was a mercy.

Almost gently, he said, “there are no roads upon the Western bank; they will not chance the forests at night, even if they do not understand our customs. They will arrive by the Eastern road.

“We gather beyond the bridge,” he said, looking at the edifice of perfect stone with something akin to wonder. And weariness. “If we can hold the bridge for some time, we may give them cause to regret their presence in Mancorvo.”

“You assume,” the Northern bard said quietly, “that they will content themselves with your destruction. If they choose to ignore the bridge, they can march upon Sarel.”

“They will not leave us at their backs,” Ser Alessandro said evenly. “They will seek the advantage of numbers to destroy our forces here before they proceed.”

Jewel ATerafin frowned openly, but the battleground was already such a strange, destroyed place that it mattered little. “That makes no sense,” she said.

Reymos, bleeding, bridled. But Ser Alessandro nodded, bidding her continue.

“If I were them, I’d leave some small number to contain
us
, and I’d ride to Sarel. If they take Sarel, you cannot win, even if you survive.”

“ATerafin,” Kallandras said quietly, “they are led by
Kialli
, whether they know it or not. We
are
too great a threat.”

“Can we win?”

“I cannot say.” Ser Alessandro gazed at the silent sky, and then at the stag, at Lord Celleriant, at Kallandras of Senniel. “But . . . against their numbers, without some greater intervention, I would say that the possibility is slim. We can retreat, but the retreat would be costly, and there is no guarantee that it would not become a rout; once they cross the bridge, once they enter the Western half of Damar, we are outnumbered.”

“What if they try to cross the river to the West?”

“If they choose to cross the road beyond Damar, we have no way of defending it; they will come late, but they will come at our backs; we cannot hold bridge and land, both.

“And they have seen no battle, if I am not mistaken; they come fresh to the fight.”

“You are not mistaken,” the Old Forest lord said. “And . . .” he gazed a moment at the man upon the bridge, and then turned back. “I am spent; you will have my sword, and it will count for tens of men—but more than that, I cannot in safety offer; were I to unleash the wind, it would take more from you than it would preserve.”

Alessandro bowed head, accepting the inevitable.

“Then we will hold the bridge,” the Tor’agar replied. “Until we have, ourselves, none who are up to the task.”

The Serra Teresa di’Marano looked up, neck snapping in a parody of grace. Her eyes were wide and dark; they gazed into the center of the perfect, spare room as if she could see a ghost that did not choose to haunt the room’s other occupants.

But the Serra Celina en’Clemente, lamb or no, was not unwatchful. Her eyes rose as the Serra did.

“Serra Teresa?”

The Serra’s grace returned, but she did not sink back into the fold of lap and rough Voyani cloth. Instead, she turned to the Matriarch of Havalla, her gaze skirting the upturned face of the Serra Diora di’Marano.

The Serra’s fingers lay still against samisen strings, where a moment ago, they had moved; she did not otherwise acknowledge the change in the Serra Teresa’s demeanor. Was not otherwise acknowledged.

“We must speak,” Serra Teresa said quietly to the Havallan Matriarch.

Serra Celina rose at once; after a heart’s beat, the Serra Diora did likewise. Grace, Celina thought; exquisite grace. For she knew the Serra Diora had traveled through the Deepings at the side of both of these women. Celina reached the sliding screens of the interior room, and paused as she waited for the seraf without to slide them across their recessed rails.

The seraf did not respond.

First fear. The night had fallen, and its hold was strange; she could taste a wildness in the wind that wound its way through open screens and veils of incense until, in subtlety, it reached the harem’s inner heart.

Best not to hear the words of the Voyani; best not to notice the words of their Matriarch. She pressed her hands against the screens, determined now to perform the menial task left her by the absent seraf.

But before she could open the doors, the Serra Teresa spoke a single word. “No.”

The Havallan Matriarch, crippled, rose by the grace of the Serra Teresa di’Marano and made her way to the single lamp that burned upon the low table, its shadows long and wavering.

Celina was quiet; it was in silence that the most oft used refuge of women lay. But the Serra Diora glanced once at the swirling fiber contained in the opacity of screen paper, and then she bowed and returned to her place against the wall.

Without asking leave or permission—and in the end, what Voyani woman knew such grace—the Havallan Matriarch took a slender stick of wood from the dirty folds of clothing she had been unwilling to surrender to the ministrations of the serafs.

The scent of sweat, of blood, of road, lingered in the room in spite of the costly oils and incense that Celina had chosen to burn; her husband would be ill-pleased at the expense, she thought.

And knew herself a foolish woman to think so.

The wood was a sweet wood, but it was not a soft one; it was slow to take fire from the lamp, and Celina thought the lamp itself might gutter before surrendering any share of its flame.

But the stick took fire and began a hesitant crackle, and only when it spoke thus did they speak.

“Serra Celina,” the Serra Teresa di’Marano said quietly, “I have traveled long upon the
Voyanne
at the side of the Matriarch, and in return for my aid, she has gifted me with some measure of the Voyani lore.

“What I say, therefore, is of the Voyani, and if you will have peace between her people and yours, you will hide the source of the words while you live.”

Celina nodded.

But she sat, knees shaking into the soft mat that held them, hands now bunching in graceless fists around folds of pale silk. Orange, it looked, in the fire’s dim light. Orange and shadow.

“Send for your son,” the Serra said. “Tell him to man the curtain wall with the archers the Tor’agar left behind.”

The Serra Celina gazed into the fire, into the dwindling length of stick. “I am not a man,” she said at last, and softly. “It is not from me that he will take his command.”

“Tell him,” the Serra Teresa continued, as if the necessary and formulaic words had not been spoken, “that the forces of Alesso di’Marente have gathered a thousand strong in Damar, and that they will march—if unhindered—to the very gates of Sarel.”

She closed her eyes. Thought of her son.

“Not all of the Clemente men were seconded; those that can fight must be ready to fight. Summon the Radann,” she added, “for their foes are on the field.”

Bright Lady, Dark Lady. She bowed her head.

“And Serra Celina, I bid you be deaf to the sounds of battle that you hear within your domis; seek only your son; deliver only this message. Return,” she added quietly. “We will be waiting, with the child.”

The child. For a moment, Celina’s expression softened into lines of gentle worry. But the child had not heard; her breath remained steady, an even, gentle sound.

The Radann par el’Sol heard the words as if they were the voice of god. Clear, clearer than the roar of winds in open desert, they came to him as he stood in watchful silence with his gathered Radann, his men of the Lord.

It is time, Radann par el’Sol. Draw your blade. Do what must be done
.

And what of you? he whispered, his lips barely moving. What of the kai Clemente?

But there was no answer; his voice was not like unto the Lord’s; it traveled the brief span of air allowed men who must breathe to exist.

Turning to the Radann he lifted finger to lip; they nodded in the dim light. Around them, the domis of the clan Clemente slept; cerdan manned the gates, but they gazed out, toward the sleeping road, and the shadows of the Old Forest.

He placed his hand around the hilt of
Verragar
, and after a brief pause, he drew the sword. It shamed moonlight; it shone blue.

Radann eyes widened; heads bowed in respect. The swords that left sheath in reply to his own were dull glints of moon-touched sharpness. But they were men’s weapons, all; Marakas par el’Sol felt not empowered, but humbled, for they drew their weapons as purposefully as he, and theirs was the greater risk.

“Not so,” the eldest of the Radann said, divining the thought that Marakas did not hide behind courtly expression. “The only risk that matters is failure.”

Marakas bowed to these men, rank forgotten a moment as the voice of the Sword became his own.

He began to move, and they followed in silence.

The Serra Celina returned to the heart of the harem, her face as pale as the powdered Serras of the Highest Court in the land. No artifice gave her color, and she paused a moment to gather breath, strands of her hair falling across her face like shadowed web.

“My son—” She was not used to running.